A Faith I Had to Unlearn Before I Could Believe Again

I fall to the ground beside a nameless road,

Somewhere memory forgot how to speak.

I lift what’s left behind—

A weathered weight of belief,

Soiled by time, cracked with doubt,

Still warm enough to hold.

I press it against my ribs,

Convinced it once meant more

Than inherited rituals

Passed down like fragile glass.

My fingers tremble with old echoes—

Fear taught early, shame learned well.

I whisper into the unseen air,

To whatever spirit still bears honest fruit:

Root yourself in me.

I don’t want a faith rehearsed by habit.

I want breath, movement, unrest.

Let me be the wind moving through

The altar of those who came before me.

Let me dissolve what I’ve carried

Into something living—

A bright current, loosened and free.

I want to sink into that water,

Let it strip me of certainty,

And rise carrying something older than language—

Mist shaped by divine hands,

Passed into mine,

Passed into hers.

Everything circles back—

The wanderer returning,

Discovering truth not lost,

But waiting beneath the soil.

This is my prayer, exhaled slowly:

Acceptance without armor.

A faith worth breathing for,

Worth surrendering to,

Worth dying into—

And becoming again.